


the ponds of sorgan

by Rhiannon87



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Parent-Child Relationship, Single Parents, Soft Din Djarin, Soft Omera, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28412007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhiannon87/pseuds/Rhiannon87
Summary: In the weeks after the raider attacks, Omera and the Mandalorian take a break and talk. (Not explicitly romantic, though there is some light yearning.)
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin & Omera, Din Djarin/Omera, Grogu | Baby Yoda & Omera, Omera & Winta (Star Wars)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 75





	the ponds of sorgan

There is _so_ much work to be done.

Omera drags an arm across her forehead and squints at the midday sun. Most of the village has spent the day working to break down the remains of the Imperial walker, sorting scrap into piles for eventual sale. It’ll help make up for the loss of their harvest, at least. They’ll survive, which is more than she’d hoped for a week ago.

Midday is typically time for a meal and a brief rest before work continues, and though they aren’t working the ponds, the habit holds. Omera collects a plate and mug of water, then looks back to the temporary scrapyard. The Mandalorian is still out there with his toolkit, sitting on top of the hull as sparks fly. She sighs and picks up a second mug.

“You can take a break too, you know,” she calls with a smile when she gets close.

He turns his head towards her, and after a moment, begins clambering down. Omera sits on one of the nearby fallen logs, her plate balanced on her knees, and gestures for him to take a seat beside her. After another moment of hesitation, he does so, and she can hear faint, pained grunts as he settles, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“Here. I know you can’t eat yet, but you should at least have something to drink.” She sets the second mug within arm’s reach of him, then very pointedly turns her back, looking out towards the woods as she picks at her food.

She can tell he’s hesitating again, and it’s strange, that someone who can be so decisive in battle has to weigh every other choice so heavily. Then there’s a faint metallic click, presumably as he lifts his helmet enough to drink. He exhales heavily, the sound unblocked by the helmet, then another click. “Thank you,” he says, sincere and faintly muffled, and she turns back to see him fully covered again.

“You’re welcome.” Omera gives him another brief smile and returns to her food.

Silence falls, and while she wouldn’t call it quite comfortable, it isn’t awkward, either. Omera looks to the half-dismantled walker and sighs. “I certainly hope there aren’t any more of these lurking out there.”

He snorts. “I doubt it. No idea how this one got here in the first place.”

“Probably left from the occupation.”

“The Empire occupied _Sorgan_?” The disbelief in his voice is all too clear. “I mean--there isn’t much of strategic value here.”

Omera chuckles lightly and nods. “There isn’t,” she agrees. It’s a simple place where people can live simple lives. At least, that’s the goal. In her experience, things have never been as simple as one would hope. “That’s why the Rebellion set up a cell here. It’s quiet and remote and has nothing the Empire would be interested in.”

He nods, head cocked a bit to the side, leaning towards her slightly. In the absence of facial expressions, Omera’s focused on his body language, learning what each slight gesture means. Others in the village say he’s impossible to understand, but that’s not the case. It just takes a bit more work.

Right now, he’s listening, curious, waiting for her to continue her story. She smiles a little, more at the attention than the tale she’s telling. “The Empire traced them back here, though, and attacked. Wiped them out. We thought that would be the end of it, but they sent troops to make sure no one tried again.” She shrugs and looks down at her plate. “It didn’t work the way they hoped.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your friend isn’t the only one who fought in the Rebellion.” Omera glances at him for a reaction; he straightens up in clear surprise.

“You served?”

“Not formally. It was a little after the first Death Star was destroyed. Winta was just a baby. We… we had a lot of hope, that things would change. And then when the Empire came, a lot of anger. Some of us fought back.”

He nods slowly. “I’m guessing that’s where you learned to shoot.”

“Mm-hm.” It had been years since she’d held a rifle, but the muscle memory remained. She’d always had good aim.

“What happened?”

Omera shrugs and shakes her head. “They stuck around for a couple years, then pulled out. I don’t think it was because of us, really. More likely they needed the troops elsewhere. But we did some damage before they left.” She sighs. “Though they did plenty of their own.”

“I’m sorry.”

She nods. “Thank you. It’s all right.” It’s been several years since her husband’s death, and the wound of it is a faint ache these days. He’d have been proud of her, though. Proud of the whole village. It makes the ache a little more bearable.

Movement from the village catches her eye, and both she and the Mandalorian straighten up as Winta comes hurrying over with the baby in her arms. “He won’t stop crying,” she says, clearly distressed.

He’s not crying the way human babies do; the little one is whimpering and whining, squirming unhappily in Winta’s arms. The Mandalorian immediately holds out his hands to take the baby from her. “Hey, kid, what’s wrong?” he asks, settling the baby on his lap. The baby whines and tries to bury his face against the Mandalorian’s armor. “No, no, stop that.”

“He might just be tired,” Omera says gently. “Can I…?” She halfway reaches for him, waiting until the Mandalorian nods before carefully lifting the baby into her arms. He doesn’t look a thing like Winta did when she was this small, but holding him still feels familiar. She tucks him in against her shoulder and rubs her hand in small circles on his back. He whimpers again, turning his face from side to side, but stops squirming. “Is that better?” she murmurs. “You needed a rest too?”

She can practically feel the weight of the Mandalorian’s gaze on her. He shifts his weight from side to side, unable to entirely keep his hands still. New parent anxiety, Omera recognizes with a small smile. The baby’s quieted, his breathing starting to even out, and she offers him back to the Mandalorian. He takes the baby with care and cradles him against his shoulder, a cautious imitation of how she’d held him. The baby coos softly and raises one tiny hand to grip the fabric across the Mandalorian’s chest.

“Thank you,” he says again, though it’s clear from the angle of his helmet that his attention is fully on the baby.

He’s a study in contradictions, Omera thinks, this heavily armed and armored warrior gently cradling his child. She wouldn’t have thought him capable of such tenderness when she’d first laid eyes on him. She can’t help but think of how long he’s hidden himself behind that armor and wonders if he’s ever had the opportunity to be gentle like this.

There’s so much she doesn’t know about him. But she’s starting to hope that perhaps, someday, she’ll get the chance to find out.

Winta leans against her side, watching him with the baby, and she smiles and wraps an arm around her. The movement draws his attention, and he hunches his shoulders a bit when he notices them both staring. “I’m going to put him back in the barn,” he says, getting to his feet. “Need to get back to work.”

“All right,” Omera says, unable to entirely keep her disappointment out of her voice. But he’s clearly uncomfortable with the attention, and she’s not about to force him to stay. She shakes her head a little and turns back to her daughter. “You should get back to village, too,” she says. “We’ve got lots to do before sunset.”

Winta nods but doesn’t move, scuffing her toe against the grass. “Mama? Do you think they’re gonna stay?”

Omera looks across the fields and ponds, watching as the Mandalorian easily weaves through the village, his child still cradled in his arms. “I don’t know,” she says. “But I hope so.”

“Me too.” Winta beams at her.

Omera laughs and kisses her daughter’s forehead, then gently shoos her back towards the village center before rising and turning her attention to the metal hulk before her. Time to get back to work.


End file.
